


The Precipice of Change

by loveandrockmusic



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Character Death Fix, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Kindness, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reflection, Second Chances, Spirit Guides
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 21:10:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20552747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveandrockmusic/pseuds/loveandrockmusic
Summary: We carry everything and nothing with us. A GOT series finale fix-it via post-LB Narnia.





	The Precipice of Change

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleRaven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRaven/gifts).

> Hello hello! 
> 
> There is a part two to this that I absolutely lack the confidence to post, tbh. I could potentially be cajoled after much wine. For now please enjoy this humble meditation on second chances.

“That was a rum ending.”

“The coward,” snarled Reepicheep, drawing his rapier to furnish the point.

“But where will Drogon _go_?”

“And what became of the Unsullied?” Cor demanded.

“Friends, friends,” said the Hermit. “I fear we have wasted much time in this endeavor.” His eyes twinkled. “It is lucky that in Aslan’s Country we are not bound to the hour.”

They all laughed. As they rose from beside the Pool, Reepicheep, Cor and Eustace went one way, arguing about the battle in King’s Landing. Peter walked with his brother Edmund along the bank of the Winding Arrow.

“It _was_ a cruel ending,” he remarked.

Edmund nodded his head in agreement. “I should have left when Aunt Polly did.”

Polly had given up after they burned Shireen Baratheon. Peter could still her cry of _“Nonsense!”_ as clearly as when she had said it.

“Cold murder done with a kiss,” said Peter quietly, hating even the taste of the words.

“That world is one of great injustice. I don’t care to know the rest of its history.”

“Nor do I. And yet…” Peter thought again of the horror of it, Daenerys Targaryen as she lay curled between the talons of her last living dragon. In his life he had seen much death, and none so cruel and treacherous as that. “I do wish we could make provision for the Dragon Queen.”

Edmund raised his eyebrows and brought a thoughtful hand to his chin. “The thing can be done, I suppose. We’d have ask Aslan; but it cannot be wrong to want it.”

\--

“Will you help us?”

He spoke with Lucy on a high pasture, where lambs and faunlings chased each through tall grass. She held a newborn on her lap and gently stroked its fine fuzz of wool.

“No Peter, I won’t. She’s harmed too many. I will not have her here, and nor will Aslan.”

Peter held his tongue, even as his heart protested. Her words had shown him the way to consider it. So when he was with Aslan in his garden, he did not ask to bring Daenerys Targaryen to his Country.

The Lion stared unblinkingly and Peter knew to wait.

“My son, you have the Key to my Kingdom. If you will speak for this Dragon Queen then there may well be a place for her.”

It was enough.

Dutifully he recounted this conversation to his sister, unwilling to suggest any division between them. It was folly of course; there were no divisions in Aslan’s Country. The fickle politics had been left behind with the rest of it. But Peter was a loyal brother and a good leader, and even here, he did only what was natural to him.

This time they spoke as the sun set behind the mountains and daylight faded slowly into purple dusk. One by one, the lambs and young fauns curled up against each other and went to sleep. The faunlings had flowers bunched in their little fists.

“It’s not her beauty, is it, brother?” Lucy asked, half-joking, half-reproachful.

He tried to think how to explain his interest. Where had the desire to intervene come from? In this beautiful country, he found himself considering more and his own journey. How much he realized his strength had come from his family; his brother and sisters, the bedrock of his life. He couldn’t quite find the words to say why he felt this isolated, remorseless girl was worthy of an outstretched hand.

Lucy, who had grown up in the bosom of their family, who had walked with Aslan in every life she led, would not understand why Peter would wish to help the terrible Daenerys Targaryen.

“No,” he answered, half-smiling.

They watched as the moon appeared in the sky, round and full, and then Lucy turned to him.

“You know I love you well, Peter? I am not without sympathy,” she offered.

From her apron, she withdrew a sachet of carefully dried and wrapped herbs. He looked at her in surprise. He had known not to expect the cordial.

He tucked the precious gift away and took both her hands in his, kissing her fingers in gratitude.

“Go well, my brother. If anyone can manage it, it’s you.”

\--

  
“Take Eustace with you,” his brother suggested. “He’s good company.”

“You don’t mind being my proxy?”

Edmund gave him a wry smile. “Have I ever?”

They both chuckled, but his eyes narrowed as he watched Peter unbuckle his sword and hand it over.

“Are you sure you want to leave it here?”

Peter surveyed the collection of things he would take with him.

“I think I’m better off without it. I’m hardly going far, after all. There won’t be any danger.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Edmund said rather seriously, “I wouldn’t underestimate this girl, brother.

\--

Pain was everywhere, all consuming, a haze with no end and no beginning. She tried to choke; she could feel blood in her throat, but she could barely draw breath. Her arms were too heavy to lift. But she could feel her fists and the rage that shook them. _Rage!_ The scream of it couldn’t leave her body. It was trapped inside, beating against her bones, searing through her with nowhere to go – the pain and the rage, stacking over and over like a stoked fire – until blissfully, the blackness took her again.

\--

The second time she woke, it was calmer. She could breathe at least.

She could see she was a in a room with bare walls, lying on a low pallet. A few feet away a fire burned on a stone flagged floor. And beyond that, visible in profile, was a man.

She watched him through the flames for some time, before he looked up and noticed she was awake.

“Who are you?” Her throat was dry and scratchy. “Where am I?”

Slowly, carefully, he came closer and crouched beside her.

“My name is Peter. Drink this.”

He held a cup of something to her lips, fragrant with herbs, and Daenerys drank deeply. It soothed her sore throat and warmed her belly. The pain beating beneath her breast receded, slowly.

The last thing she saw before sleep claimed her was his face, earnest and concerned.

\--

She dreamed of _him_. His mouth, his soft lies. His knife.

\--

The next time she woke, she was alone.

It was still the same room, the same stone walls. Faint light came through high dusty windows. She moved her hands down her belly and felt the layer of bandages there. Even the lightest touch hurt.

She screwed her eyes shut as the memory played over again; Jon’s knife between her ribs, the cold steel of his blade. _Traitor. Liar. Coward_.

Her muscles seemed to lock with rage. She writhed on the pallet, but the strength to rise up from the floor would not come.

Then the man called Peter was there and she stilled herself at once. She recalled dimly that he had seemed kind, but what surety was that? People could have a thousand wicked reasons to be kind, as Jon had so recently reminded her.

They stared at each other in the low light as Daenerys thought how to proceed. It was hardly the first time she had found herself in the custody of strangers, though it was true she had seen no other soul but him.

Wordlessly he held out a hand. There was a shining ring on one finger. After a moment, she grasped it and he raised her to a sitting position against the hard stone wall. She sat there, breathing heavily, for a few moments.

“Thank you,” she told him. “You said your name was Peter. Are you a Northman?”

“No, I am a Narnian. My kingdom was far beyond the realms you knew.”

She paused to draw breath, feeling a prickle of some unpleasant truth in his words.

“You say _was_,” she repeated slowly. “What does that mean?”

“That it came to its end. And now I am here.”

She noted this strange turn of phrase, the oddness of his tone. It was a purposeful ambiguity.

Her blood was cold with suspicion; she was injured and wholly in the power of a stranger. This Peter held all the cards and seemed in no hurry to reveal anything. He had the knowledge and the leverage.

He did not have the face of a liar, but she reminded herself that liars had many faces.

“And how is it that I am here?”

“I heard tell of you, Daenerys Targaryen, and wished to help you on your journey.”

Her eyes narrowed. So he knew who she was after all: that meant he wanted something from her. And even if he were sincere, in her life she had met many men who had tried to help her… and they either betrayed her or proved themselves weak. Or died cruel, small deaths. She swallowed.

“Here is another tonic for you,” said Peter. “It is only a half dose. You are healing well.”

\--

She saw them again; their hard eyes, their defiant mouths proud to the end. Tyrion, Varys, Cersei.

Sleep was the path to healing. It was also the enemy.

Jorah slain on the ground. Missandei as she fell in pieces from the high wall, the anguish on Grey Worm’s face. Their empty eyes staring out at her.

\--

She woke with a choking sob. The eyes of the Dead were all around her.

Her heart, already racing, jumped again when she realized she was not alone. It was the man Peter, sitting very close.

She waited until her breath was steady and she could speak without showing fear. “Is this real?” she whispered. “You. This place. The things I see.”

He sighed. “Yes, yes and yes. I wasn’t sure how much you would remember.”

Dany stared at him, clenching and unclenching her jaw. “I remember everything,” she said, speaking around her teeth.

Peter looked very grave. “It was a fatal wound. But I spoke for you, to bring you here.”

“I said that to a woman once,” she said slowly. “She stole my child from me.”

He cast his eyes downward. “I am sorry for that. All the same, it is true.”

She listened hard for what he was not saying. _A fatal wound_.

“You saved me from the grave, is that what you are telling me?”

Peter inclined his head. “We thought you had been dealt a rough hand. I asked if I may bring you here, and offer you the choice to start again.”

He rose and pulled her to her feet. Her weak legs and sore belly protested, but she nodded vigorously at the prospect of finally leaving the dim and dusty chamber. His arm looped around her and they made their way down a dark corridor that emerged suddenly into sunlight.

She held back a gasp. They were on the top of a high mountain. Below them was untouched country, forests and valleys and rivers, green and beautiful and unlike anywhere she had ever seen. Out of habit, Daenerys turned her eyes to the sky.

Drogon circled above them, crooning, and tears of relief streamed down her face.

\--

Everything was different in the daylight.

Daenerys breathed deeply, feeling a calm move through her veins. Her beloved Drogon meant she was no longer alone in this strange place. His presence also meant safety and power. Now if this Peter demonstrated wicked intent, she could burn him to ash.

But Peter showed no fear of this. Whenever Drogon passed by, he smiled with an evident joy. She could see now that he was a handsome man, with broad shoulders and a strong jaw. The dark red of his tunic suited him very well.

They sat together on the terrace built out from the tower. There were no chairs or furnishing of any kind. She wondered again what kind of place this was, why it was built. She doubted Peter lived here, though he seemed comfortable enough.

“It is time to decide what you want, Daenerys.”

She thought of her dreams. “Revenge.”

He looked at her seriously. “That is beyond your reach. You are gone from that world. You may never have revenge.”

“Freedom then.”

He was silent and she felt herself grow angry. “And don’t I have it?” she said, not really asking. “I can take Drogon and leave this place at once.”

She said this quite forcefully, but it was not really an appealing thought. For some reason she did not wish to leave him. And if she had truly come to a place beyond her own world, she did not wish to go forth alone into its wilds.

Peter sighed and gestured out beyond the terrace. “There are no lands beyond this mountain, no people. This is a place between.”

“A place between,” she repeated, looking around. _The place beyond death._

She turned her eyes back to him, feeling frustration again.

“You say that I have died, you say I am indebted to you – ”

He looked at her sharply. “I spoke nothing of debt.”

“A reward, then, for your charity.”

“Those are not my reasons, Daenerys.”

He leaned back on his palms, and his eyes followed Drogon as he soared through the clouds.

“I was also banished from my home, and made a new life in a new world. You can do the same. There can be such a thing as peace.”

She looked at him. “So you have died, as well.”

He nodded and straightened his shoulders, that earnest expression filling his face. “I have a living sister,” he offered. “She can help you.”

Only one way to go, only one choice to make. It was the opposite of freedom. A strange man trying to sell her a second life, built on platitudes and vague hopes, in a supposed act of mercy.

“And if I say no? What then?”

Peter bowed his head and admitted he did not know.

“And I am just supposed to do what you say?”

“Drogon could burn me if you wished it.”

“He could burn anyone,” she said, lifting her chin.

His mouth twitched toward a frown. So he could recognize a veiled threat, at least.

“The place I have arranged for you,” he said gently. “It must be your choice. And your dragon cannot come with you.”

“I won’t leave Drogon alone,” she told him.

“I have that in hand.”

\--

What exactly that meant became clear when a youth came up the mountain path in the bright afternoon sun. He had curly hair and a good-natured face. His cheeks were puffed red with the effort of the hike up the mountain.

“Whoo,” he whistled. “You weren’t kidding, Peter.”

“Queen Daenerys,” he said, turning to her and smiling. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She looked at him in surprise. Peter had never given any indication that he cared about her titles.

“Well met, cousin,” said Peter, and kissed him on both cheeks.

Daenerys noticed how familiar the greeting went between them. It spoke much about Peter, who had always seemed reserved to her; she was glad of the opportunity to see him with another person. And it was a relief to meet someone new after long in the same company.

He had brought a large basket strapped to his back. Fruits, smoked meats and cheeses, flat baked bread, a flask of wine. They sat down together as if to share it, but Daenerys ate most of the meal.

Peter ate only a few bites of fruit and some of the meats. The youth, Eustace Scrubb, didn’t touch anything. Instead, he recounted his journey and the sights he had seen in a flurry of words that she could hardly follow.

“And I’ve found a suitable place,” he reported. “It only took a few tries. I think it’ll do well.”

Once Daenerys had finished, he clapped his hands together and grinned. Like Peter, he wore a gold ring on one hand and a green one on the other.

“All right, now where’s this dragon?”

\--

Eustace greeted Drogon with a bow and spoke to him in a low, soothing voice.

Daenerys stood with Peter some distance away. “Don’t worry,” he said, leaning close to whisper. “My cousin is an expert on all things dragons.”

She watched as they began to circle one another. Eustace struck her as a much more formal person than Peter, though she couldn’t have said why.

After a while she decided to speak what was on her mind. “I suppose it doesn't matter anymore," she began. “But if you know me so well, why is it that you will not address me by my titles?”

Peter titled his head to one side. “I thought the simplest names were best. The custom may not be observed among those of equal rank,” he remarked, raising an eyebrow.

She met it with a level gaze of cool dismissal.

“You are a king, that is what you’re trying to tell me.”

He laughed. “Yes.”

Eustace had clambered atop Drogon. His wings spread wide and he leapt up, rising into the sky.

\--

Peter did not rush her farewell. He took his cousin into the small tower and left her with Drogon.

He landed on the empty terrace and she crawled beneath his wing, lying against his neck for a long time.

\--

They gave her new clothes for the journey; sturdy and well-made, with boots that fit her as well as any she’d ever owned. Daenerys did not ask what had become of the clothes that she had died in, or Jon’s knife.

It felt good to dress and move about without help, feeling the freedom in her body. She blinked away the memory of Missandei standing just behind her, out of sight, and braided her own hair as quickly as possible.  
  
“It’s rough country,” Peter said, surveying the landscape from the last high vantage point before the descent. “It was never meant to be traveled. I’m afraid it will be slow going.”

“Very well,” she said, taking a final look over her shoulder. Drogon was with Eustace on the terrace.

The path down the mountain was hardly a path at all. It was a zigzagging slope downward, cut with rocks and trees and roots. The wood in the valley was so thick with trees she couldn’t see the ground. It soon became clear that this journey through hard country would be a task in itself. They had to contend with large branches, rushing streams, deep cuts of rock that were jagged and dangerous.

There was something of a relief in the simplicity of it, all the same. She had moved with her councilors and armies and entourage for so long. Now she was one person, with no other worries than the path in front of her.

As they went deeper in the forest, the roar of the wind was less. There was a silence deeper and richer than perhaps anything she had heard before. The air was full of magic, she was certain of that; she remembered the House of the Undying in Qarth, where magic permeated the walls and clouded her mind. This was a different sort of magic. It was still and lovely, full of light.

Beside her, Peter breathed deeply. He seemed more alive than anything else in the wood, with taut muscles that swung her up from ground to ground or tied ropes in tight knots. It was hard to remember that they were already on the other side of death.

To pass the time as they traveled, Peter began to recite his history. It was a lot more exciting than the vague allusions and platitudes Daenerys had grown so tired of in the tower at the top of the mountain. He spoke of his family, his kingdom, lions and songs and splendid ships. He told her of his home, a shining castle on the sea and how he had come to see it crumbled into ruins.

She also learned a great deal from watching. He was a natural speaker with a gift for storytelling. From the way he moved his body and his learned woodcraft, she could see now that he was a warrior, though he wore no sword and carried only rope.

After a while, Daenerys would tell one of her own stories in return. Some he knew already, but others would elicit great surprise. Every now and then her lungs would seize up with another memory and she would falter. But Peter was always there to catch her hand or brace himself behind her, sturdy and safe when she stumbled.

\--

There were no animals in the wood. Sometimes, at rocky outcroppings with sparse tree cover, they would glimpse Drogon sailing past with Eustace on his back.

\--

“You haven’t asked why I chose to speak for you, to be your guide here,” Peter said, as they worked across a dip of jutted rock.

She stepped on a large boulder that put her a head taller than he stood, angling her jaw in a way she knew men liked.

“That is a question I don’t need to ask.”

He laughed. “It isn’t what you think.” His eyes grew soft. “Your stories moved my heart because I couldn’t imagine leading such a lonesome life as yours.”

There was a silence and Daenerys allowed him to help her down, a curious feeling blooming in her belly.

“When I ruled as High King, I had three pillars beside me; my brother and my sisters. Even when Narnia was lost to me they were still there. Every grief and joy we shared as four. But you, Daenerys Stormborn, have walked alone.”

**Author's Note:**

> This borrows so, so much from The Stone Gryphon series by Rthstewart. Rth, thank you for everything. Your wonderful stories mean so much to me! They taught me a ton and also apparently made me an optimist. Thank you to Meto for critical emotional support. 
> 
> Honestly thank you to all of my friends whose relentless stream of encouragement has sustained me. And a special thank you to Snacky for her patience with my utter chaos. This was my first exchange EVER, and also my first official posting on AO3.


End file.
